


Craving Life

by Hgrade



Series: Sentinel Prime Goes to Hell [4]
Category: Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Abortion, Daterape, Gen, Horrible Fanfiction, Horror, M/M, Mech Preg, Medical Procedures, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:10:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7867237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hgrade/pseuds/Hgrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sentinel feels as if his life has fallen apart. Sequel to Failed Reunion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Calling

**Author's Note:**

> Another unhappy story about Sentinel Prime's life falling apart. Please read something nicer. 
> 
>  
> 
> This story is incomplete, please check the tags with chapter updates.

The space bridge is on a lonely, dusty little planet. The light flashing on Optimus' arm is the only indication of a call waiting. Finally, it catches his optic after a heavy swing of the power pick breaks apart a small hill of debris. Whoever it is, isn't important. The only thing he cares about these days are his shifty little crew of losers. The planetoid is tiny, but full of sharp cracks in the planet's surface. They can wait, whoever it is. 

Optimus checks the ship's chronometer, it's break time. He lets the guys know over their work com channel and dusts off his servos. There's not a single inhabitant on this planetoid, they're all visitors to this empty area. Still, it had served a purpose during the war.

The red, white and blue mech steps into the ship's hold with the familiar tinny sound of his own weight hitting it on all sides. Bumblebee and Bulkhead are playing some kind of game on a repair table. Rachet's familiar grouchy frame is hovering over the control panels.

His helm rises as Optimus steps closer. "Optimus." his voice is unreadable, "I believe someone is trying to reach you." Rachet says it soft enough that Bulkhead's eyebrow rises in interest. "It's a private call." he says to Optimus, but now Bee's looking too.

Bulk taps something and the table cheers gleefully. Bee scoffs and says he's cheating.

Rachet nods along as Optimus heads down to a quieter part of the ship. The halls are empty and quiet.

"Who is this?"

"Look, Optimus."

At once a vicious sense of violation spreads through Optimus' mind. Why in frag's sake is Sentinel calling him, how dare he think he has the right to keep this number. It's not even eight in the evening and Optimus is tired, sore and exhausted from a long day of manual labor. On the other line is the source of his pain and humiliation. "What do you want?" he says softly, deadly slow to the unfamiliar bot.

The microklick Optimus stops speaking, "I'm sorry," comes from the line. Optimus registers that Sentinel's voice wavers horribly and it sounds like he's drunk. Heavy static from Sentinel's vocalizer gets mixed in. Another klick, "I'm so sorry." The connection goes quiet, then the little chime tells Optimus that Sentinel has cut it off entirely. Optimus' expression lingers upon grim.

Sentinel has no excuse for the sudden call. He can't even explain it to himself. Questions if it was familiarity, whenever something went wrong he used to call Eilta or Optimus. His form shivers, shakes as he sits down in his bunk again. It's been exactly one megacycle back on Cybertron and Sentinel Prime can barely hold it together.

Optimus doesn't call back.


	2. Plauge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentinel gets a check up.

Of course the old bot keeps asking if he's alright, having sensed that something unsavory had occurred between his underling and the Decepticon. Honestly, Sentinel doesn't feel like he's doing alright. Every waking moment he isn't engaged with his job, he thinks about what happened. There is no one for him to talk to. There is no bot to turn to. Alone with his mistakes, he flings himself harder into his work. His lie is bad, but his boss bot doesn't ask for any more on the issue.

Only a deca-cycle later and something even worse lingers on his processor. Occasionally there's a string of viral infections in the office, normal for any job with a mass amount of bots. Sometimes the transmission would occur through regular comm channels and mess up everyone's frequency. Sentinel thinks he shouldn't be getting sick this long. Sentinel begs every god he thinks of to make it a non-lethal infection. The signs are all on his diagnostics, altered temperature, achy joints and lubricant gunking up instead of watering down. 

He schedules a visit to his brigade's medic. Sentinel's been exhausted, his dreams troubled more than ever in his life. His work has been slipping by the cycle and he wants everything to stop changing with a desperate fervor. This visit should help calm him, get him on antiviral code or even medicated energon.

Walking down the deserted hall to their clinic has him paranoid, spine tightening and hands clenching. By the time he reaches the dusty door Sentinel Prime's grimacing awfully. 

The medic is a nondescript mech with a dark red shell and white highlights. His lamps are orange and an off white. He waves the stiff patient in and motions to the inspection slab. 

Sentinel sits and waits for the bot to come by, typing absentmindedly on his datapad. "Alright, you are the one with the virus correct?"

"Yes that's right." Sentinel stops holding onto the table and folds his servos in his lap instead, putting too much weight on the medic's glance.

"Okay, I'll need access to your medical panel." the bot looks into Sentinel's face, but the mech refuses to meet him optic-to-optic. The medic brushes it off as nervousness.

Sentinel holds out his right arm and opens the panel. At the faintest thought the dash lifts out and exposes the rows of plugs. 

The red bot leans in close and the blue bot- easily three times his size shudders in place. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife. He pats Sentinel's wrist "It's okay, I'm not going to hurt you. You'll feel me, alright?"

"Right." Sentinel tries to breath, but freezes when the plugs slide into place. They click with the locking mechanism. 

Diagnostics begin speaking to the medic's quiet inquiries, his expression growing puzzled as the strange report begins to appear on his HUD. "Huh." he steps back, "I'm not sure what to make of this, Sir." the smaller bot shakes his head. "It looks like this isn't anything but work related stress." he raises a brow at Sentinel.

"No, no that can't be it. It can't, we haven't been doing anything extremely strenuous."

"You were recently promoted, correct?"

"Yes, I was."

The medic refers to the datapad, typing as he speaks. "You know what, maybe you've been exposed to a crystalline pathogen. We had a few cases come in from the central office a few deca-cycles ago so maybe you picked that up." he frowns. "I'll need to take some samples of your energon and hydraulics.

"Well, if that needs to be done" Sentinel rubs his helm slowly. "I'm up to it."

"Alright, just hang tight in here and I'll see about getting clearance. It shouldn't take too long." the medic rises and opens the door.

Sentinel speaks just before the door shuts. "You don't have anyone else coming in?"

The medic's head and shoulder pushes the auto-door open with a small nudge "Not at the moment, we haven't started any new cadet classes this 'deca." he smiles.

A laugh comes from the ill mech.

The blue bot isn't alone for ten cycles before he gets a call on his comn line. "Hello, this is Sentinel Prime speaking." his expression falters at the face on the other side. "Sir!" he leans into his arm surreptitiously. "No, I encrypt all my lines." the bot pauses. "No, no. No. I don't think that's what happened. I would have shown signs much earlier if he'd" the voice gets louder, angrier for several klicks. "Okay." 

There's a knock at the door. "Hang on!" Sentinel leans into his arm "I need to go now. He's going to test me now, if there's anything wrong we'll know in a few solar cycles." Sentinel nods sharply "You too sir." and hangs up.

The medic enters again, "Busy I see."

"Yeah."

"I should recommend you not take business calls while getting inspected."

"It was important."

The medic rolls his optics and pulls a tray from underneath the inspection table. "Alright, can you lay down?"


	3. Clueless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A solar cycle is roughly one Earth day.

He just can't do it, not at this rate. 

It's been five solar cycles since Sentinel Prime saw a medic. The awful feeling has been growing worse. He can't stand being in a room alone with any bot, which is trouble for his job. The thoughts won't stop, he can't keep himself from shivering in fear at the faintest of touches. 

Sentinel Prime's starting to look rundown, he's starting to spend hours in a long hot soak under a showerhead. His spark won't stop hurting like there's not going to be another tomorrow.

Just when he feels like everything's going to end he gets a very strangely signed call. The numbers on his HUD tell him nothing, it could be his boss checking in on him. It could be Optimus, funnily enough. Sentinel frowns, because it is definitely not Optimus. Optimus wouldn't encrypt his line or sign it with a vulgar joke. 

It's either junk mail or, "You know I don't care about any of this" it is one of those that need to be melted down in a slag pile on some forgeworld. The mech on the other line scratches at his faceplate with an off color hook. "Sentinel. Can you get this slaghead off my tailpipe?" 

"Yeah." but the bot's frowning. Lockdown doesn't look as terrifying through a screen. "What's he saying?"

"He thinks I gave you a ITD."

Sentinel's servo clenches so hard he breaks his third favorite novel instantly. "What?" the sound frees him from the numbness.

"Alright, he didn't say it like that. He thinks you got cyber rabies from being on my ship and I told him that it's impossible." Lockdown smiles. "You didn't have a scratch when you came back right?"

"Frag off."

"Sentinel, are you on any preventative measures?" Lockdown sighs at the blank look he receives. "To prevent carrying? " the bounty hunter frowns. "Oh. They still haven't lifted the ban on contraceptives, right. I think I know a few bots who can get you some if that's the problem."

The autobot has disappeared from the camera feed because he's rubbing his helm with both servos. "Abortive paraphernalia is a felony."

"You know I don't care." Lockdown stands and wanders around, "If he wasn't offering me so many bounties-"

"Don't talk about it."

"Fine. Fine, I'll give you a Cybertronian contact. He'll give you it, we'll clear this up." there's a long, pregnant pause as the file arrives.

"Clear what up?"

"I think you're carrying. Autobots can't support frames." Lockdown smiles as he looks down at his latest catch. "Autobots filter out as many contaminants as they can. This usually stops anyone from getting sparklings. Now, 'cons. Let's just say they're full of surprises." the bounty hunter muses on this.

"Yeah, thanks" he feels heavy at once. He wants to strangle the face on the other side of the screen, he wants to watch every drop of Energon drip out of Lockdown's lines. Instead he's in his own bed, watching the faint twitch of the pale face like an old flick. "I guess." Sentinel ends the call before Lockdown says anything else. The mech curls up as he tries to get himself back together.


	4. Exit Left

The bot is blanketed in darkness for several minutes as the elevator drops him deeper and deeper in Iacon's catacombs. The lift stops with a mechanical hiss, and Sentinel steps out into a cool, humid space. If there's anything that scares Sentinel, it's the thought of ending up here. The vast tunnels and winding roads make him think of unpleasant excursions. Outdated bots, feral cyberbeasts, shady individuals of ill repute are all common sights of the less traveled layers of Cybertron. 

The roof rises high enough to allow access by the largest size classes, and the guardsman falters at the sight. Fear alone drives him forward, fear of something worse than being dishonorably discharged or mauled by a 'con. The thought of dying from carrying an unwanted spark bubbles quietly in his processor like a rootkit. Worse, much worse than that idea, exists the thought of allowing it to live. He's looked repeatedly in the archives, and he's become so sure. There is no protocol for an artificial protoform. Every bot in existence has found genesis beneath the loving caress of their Allspark's light.

As mismatched as he feels, the blue bot goes unnoticed. The lift moves forward, bots ready to go home after an extra shift at work. The streets down here are as densely populated as Iacon. Sure, there are more worn looking faces and patch jobs than on the surface levels but nobody looks like a Decepticon to Sentinel Prime. Sentinel Prime sure knows Decepticons up close, he thinks dryly. 

His contact's a nice, long walk out of the centralized area of the city. It has to be an illegal lab, there's traces of toxic chemtrails on half the block. Sentinel Prime sure knows how to spot a booster junkie from a mile away, they're hanging around the broken looking apartments and so out of their processors he could probably offline them without anyone caring. The dark line of thought drifts away as he heads down the alleyway indicated by Lockdown's "friend". 

Sentinel's brow furrows when the squeaky little bot of burden type appears. They have an extremely brief chat, Sentinel checks over the package presented. He makes a note to not come down here again, unless under threat of death. Normally, when doing illegal things he'd take more care in going home. Sentinel Prime however, couldn't stand the pain in his spark long enough to think of backtracking and losing anyone who might of followed him. 

Everything boils into a flurry of thoughts, the road beneath his wheels leaving his wheels hot from the friction. He doesn't need to speed but his spark bottoms out into a white hot blaze of molten pain. The reinforced walls of his sparkchamber are registering too much pressure from his spark again. Sentinel has resigned himself to acknowledging the warning and giving the systems a customary "I'll deal with it at my next check-up."

He doesn't think very much when he returns to his apartment. Sentinel begins to run each of the medical items through an analysis. The components are rare minerals and trace toxins. One of the pills is full of a painkiller. Sentinel sits on his berth and contemplates the assortment quietly. 

It's easy, take them in order. Take them with this amount of time in between. He has the next few solars free for this. The bot rises, paces around the bedroom quietly. It feels like there's been vorns upon vorns upon vorns since he'd begun work for the old bot. Was it his commander's fault that Lockdown got his servos all over Sentinel's perfectly polished exterior. Was it his fault for looking so nice, was it his fault for not ripping Lockdown's faceplate off and beating him into a pile of scrapmetal. Is Primus to blame for creating terrible things like Cybertronians that rape and murder and kill for power and power alone.

Sentinel rubs his face slowly, covering his optics before heading to the cleaning block. The mirror has been a bad decision from the start, it's facing the wall until he turns the massive pane around. Sentinel steps back and looks down into his own reflection. He's a little dusty around the wells from driving in the tunnels. 

Of course, the urge to pop open his spark chamber flares up. This'll be his last chance to see what's inside of it, to see it. Sentinel Prime has not opened his spark chamber in three steller cycles, at his last inspection. There's generally no reason to open it. Reflexively, he touches the plating over it. Finally, he starts to will it open. His systems double, triple check to ensure it isn't a mistake. The light within filters out and he tilts his chest back and forth. There's no mistaking the splitting nature of the spark, several large droplets of light dancing around his camber. Sentinel realizes he's shaking when the mirror tapping the tile gets too loud. 

Sentinel Prime sits down and takes the first course of medication, boosters. Then he changes the temperature settings on his internal spark chamber nodes. It takes a megacycle or two, but he knows damn well that spark swelling will let him reabsorb any of the fragments in there.

He doesn't feel guilty, not when the biggest pain in his entire existence has dissipated by letting his core temperature get too high. He waits to take the last course, it's on time. A few solar cycles pass, all of them peaceful as can be.

Part of Sentinel doesn't want to answer the call he gets while still vacationing, "Hello, this is Sentinel Prime speaking."

"Sentinel, we need you back in the office."

The look of shock on Sentinel's face lets Longarm know he's going to have a rough time.

"Yeah, I know. Sir." Longarm hesitates, " Sentinel?"

"Yes?"

Longarm sends him a file, "Highbrow hasn't been seen in a few solar cycles. Do you have any idea where he might be?"

"No, I'm not sure where he would be." Sentinel adopts a deep set frown. "Has anyone been to his address? There's no way he'd not be in today."

"You're telling me," Longarm sounds worried. "I see."

"You don't think anything happened to him?"

"I don't know Sentinel Prime. I'm temporarily in change of Intelligence until he returns."

"Alright Longarm, you're a little funny but I know you'll be able to hold everything together. I'll be leaving soon."

"That's good, I'll let them know."

Sentinel puzzles over the file he was given. He cleans up and tries to decrypt it, finding that it's an old message. Highbrow was never one for leaving loose ends, it's nothing more than a vague goodbye note. The blue bot finds himself unsettled by the disappearance. The Prime is walking down to the elevator when he gets three more calls at once.


	5. Admirable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t read this chapter, it's the disturbing one.  
> Fyi that means gross stuff involving blood and death.

"You know, I took time off because I was feeling sick." Sentinel stops and flashes his identification briefly, then examines the bot. "I think I'm feeling much better now."

"Alright sir." the scout class bot waves Sentinel Prime into the body of the building.

The trip to Autobot High Command is short, it's mind numbing. Nothing changes, bots don't bother walking through the halls unless they're unimportant nobodies doing errands. 

Inside the command center however, things have changed. Usually it's just a skeleton crew of bots to keep things up and running at night. Right now it's early in the morning and every desk has someone at it. The sound of typing is maddening as he reports into the Magus himself.

Ultra's face reads some sort of grief, "Autobot Sentinel. We're arranging for a search party, Highbrow has not reported in within thirty megacycles." his words are curt as he informs Sentinel of his duties. "Locating him is our priority, I need your assistance in coordinating our efforts."

A strange haze settles over Sentinel Prime as he takes his station. A few desks have been added hastily near him, and it's not enough to keep him from being paranoid. Ultra Magus always looks like someone just murdered his Amica, today is no different. Sentinel takes a seat in his spot and begins to sort through the big stack of datapads. 

The pain in his spark chamber has been nothing but a tiny ache. Filing report after report becomes absolutely mind numbing after the first two. He doesn't feel hungry, only faintly ill and cramped. A painful wave begins in his chest, crawling downward. The cramping, aching of his plating grows ever so worse with every cycle that passes. Fifty-two acquisition forms later and someone sets a cube down on his desk. Sentinel thanks whoever it is and promises to drink it before lunch. He's not a good liar at all.

"What do you think we should do about Highbrow?" Jazz stops at Sentinel's desk a few cycles before noon.

"Well, that's Intelligence's affair. We just need to find him, he probably got hung over and ended up in some gutter." Sentinel's sharp grin isn't appreciated by Jazz. Mentally, Sentinel is licking his wounds. Highbrow cannot be gone. "We'll locate him and let him sober up." a volcano of anxiety threatens to erupt. Did Highbrow finally butt heads with the wrong bot. 

"What if a 'con got him?"

Sentinel Prime laughs loudly, "A 'con? On Cybertron? Do you hear yourself Jazz?" Jazz's faceplate doesn't budge. "There's no way there's a 'con here. We'd detect it, remember?" he waves a servo "Besides, if there was one around wouldn't they get reported and arrested?" Sentinel shakes his head as he continues typing, not looking at the screen. Highbrow is an ancient Autobot, having held his office since the last head of Intelligence was executed by Decepticon forces. 

Somehow, Highbrow had known. He'd known about Lockdown, and he'd done his best to keep Sentinel out of the field. The blue Autobot's expression sobers for several klicks before Jazz chooses to speak. "We won't know until we know." Sentinel nods once. "Try not to stress out over all this work though." he points an accusatory finger at the blue mech. "You just got over being sick, if you need a break just give me a heads up and I'll call someone in to take over your station."

Sentinel's audial fins twitch the tiniest amount, "No way Jazz, you don't talk about a bot's work station like that."

The white bot chuckles "Alight, I'll ask them to put a desk right up against the front so they can't look at your screen." Jazz fingers his own empty cube. "I'm being serious though, you just got here. Don't go breaking down on us." the space ninja wanders back to his own seat.

One by one he works through his pile of datapads, finding the stray ones needing approval from him slowing down with the arrival of sunrise. The situation as well, becomes much clearer. Longarm had requested assistance from the military and science divisions for assistance in finding Highbrow. The faintest signs of a struggle were found in the older bot's very office. A drop of spilt energon, and an impression of his servo in his desk.

Nothing more remained of the bot, and many were saying he must of split to another planet. Longarm wants to be sure, and Sentinel is thankful for that. It's a relief to see someone actually caring about the old processor other than Ultra's grim, grim face. 

Sentinel gets the strangest sensation of observance. One of the older femmes stands and urges him to get out for a while. Pigheaded, Sentinel refuses. Then Jazz stops by to prattle on about peace on Cybertron and Sentinel really hates the subject. Eventually, Jazz manages to shoo Sentinel from his desk with the request that he go and get some energon from the mess hall.

Empty hallway, great. Almost on cue someone else gets shoved out of an office, throwing a datapad on the floor. Sentinel looks from the broken glass to the red bot staring at it. "Going to pick that up?"

"No." says the small scout bot. 

"Alright." Sentinel continues down the hallway unimpeded by the smaller bot.

He's nearly alone in the lift when Cliff jogs in at the last moment, someone yelling as they start to descend downwards.

Cliffjumper grimaces, "Are you still sick?"

"No, I'm not." the elevator pauses, dinging to open its doors. The two mechs watch the doors for a cycle before realizing it won't open. Sentinel presses the open button and the door pings cheerfully at the two.

The red Autobot presses the service button and speaks into the mic "Hey, the elevator's stuck again." Cliff looks to Sentinel's coolant covered face. "You look like scrapmetal." 

"Cliffjumper, I'll compress you into a mini-con if you don't shut your intake." Sentinel approaches the seam of the Elevator door, runs his servo down the side and around the frame's inner lip. The bot pulls towards himself, making more space for his fingers. Then he begins to scrabble at the solid door beneath, unmoving from its flush position at the far edge of the metal box they've been trapped in. "You've got to be fragging me. This is impossible." 

"It's possible." Cliffjumper begins to press the open button rapidly, watching it flash and ping it's unsympathetic chime.

Sentinel punches the door and hisses through his teeth. "It's reinforced." he lays his forehead against the door. "I can't be stuck in here Cliff."

"You're telling me. I had a date today and now she's not going to call me back."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I work too much. She wanted a guy who had more time for her." he rolls his optics.

"Sounds like you dodged something bad there."

"But she's so pretty." Cliff caresses the buttons on the elevator wall, slowly activating every last one of them. "I bet you don't have to worry about losing femmes."

Sentinel stiffens sharply. "My last femme" he begins. It comes out too heavy, too slow. He chokes on another cramp, and prays to Primus that the fragging elevator starts to work again. "died. I haven't" The bot sits on the floor of the elevator, the painful sensation quaking up his abdomen helping the meltdown occur.

"Frag." Cliff's expression has softened into horror. "Sentinel."

"It's not your fault." he laughs dryly, too quiet "It's Optimus's."

"Optimus?"

"A jerkbot, he's on space bridge maintainance these days."

"I get it." the red bot tries to remember something about that, because it rings a bell in his head he can't quite place when Sentinel looks half dead. "I wish they wouldn't build these like a prison." the small bot sits down too, knocking on the extremely solid floor.

They stay together like that for a megacycle or two, the eventual arrival of the maintainer bots signaling even more hopelessness. The elevator's wedged between a service space and two floors, meaning only a mini-con could fit through the opened door. 

"Sentinel?" Cliffjumper feels the panic like a white hot poker. Sentinel's optical disc has shrunken to a tiny pinprick among the darker cyan glow. "Sentinel don't die, frag." Cliff's fingers gouge into the metal tile, squeaking harshly.

The larger bot looks at Cliff, and exhales slowly. His respiration rate has risen and he can feel himself discharging coolant down every crevice. The floor and walls are cool and comforting. "Hi."

"Hello, Sentinel. Stay with me?"

"It hurts."

"What hurts?"

"My tank."

Cliffjumper looks over the bigger bot, "Please hold on okay? They should be through the wall in a megacycle or less."

"I don't know if I can."

"Sentinel you can't just die!" Cliff sounds angrier than he should, it's from the squishy fear because he is so useless. The autobot scout makes a shocked, scared, then angry face as he registers Sentinel's pelvic plating clicking open. "What in the frag pits of Unicron?"

He doesn't get an answer, in an instant the nauseating smell of energon hits his receptors. The scout begins shaking, robotic pupils dilating from instinctive fear. Sentinel's grip on the wall makes the decorative plating on it crumple like foil. It's bad, Cliffjumper realizes. There's only one fluid that should come from interfacing, and it sure as fuck isn't spark stained energon. In the next second something silvery and quite hand-shaped comes out along with the slew of blood. Cliff shudders before backing away quickly, hitting the wall with a sudden scream.

Sentinel begins pummeling the wall behind him, the excruciating waves make him nauseated but he rides them down with his own effort to remove the thing. There's very little thinking, not between the sudden bursts of pain. Parts of his vault are never going to be the same, the proto-matter burns and sears as it passes into the sticky pile of energon. 

Cliffjumper jolts against the elevator door, "Hey, we need medics now! Sentinel's bleeding out! Please don't leave us here, he's going to die!" but more importantly, Cliff doesn't think he'll be able to stand anymore energon.

The answering silence is only interrupted by Sentinel's heavy venting.


	6. Mend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing important happens, promise.

The sight is really one to behold. The floor of the elevator coated in energon. Cliffjumper attempting to meld into a corner of the space, pale and sick looking. Sentinel, chalking due to the loss of energon. Longarm watches distantly before attempting to step in. The medics shove Longarm back and the other members of the emergency medical unit gather up the large blue mech. It's a flurry of movement in the otherwise empty floor. 

Sentinel is carted off, the Science Guild's rep comes for the gore on the floor. Infectious disease is at the top of their list of culprits, supposedly. Longarm knows too much, sees too much. He stays out of the way and assists in keeping bots out of the area. 

Perceptor enters the picture after half a megacycle, face unmoving as he's lead to the commandeered office. Longarm's hunched over a desk, typing while a pale looking medic paces back and forth near the back wall. Wheeljack doesn't say anything, but settles once the door snaps shut.

"Sir" the medic turns to Percptor. "It-it's- " the head of Science nods to the white and red frame. "it's a parasitic protoform." 

At last the deep red bot speaks "Where is the specimen?"

"Here" the tired sounding medibot motions to a large, wide chest. "it's being cooled to stasis level."

"And the carrier bot?"

"Taken to the Science Division's quarantine ward. Gave him four gallons of preprocessed energon. They're working on stopping the hemorrhaging. He's been Intubated too." the bot grimaces. "I'm not sure he'll retain all functions, there's been damage to- "

"Did any of them recognize it?" asks Wheeljack.

"My team has top secret clearance, it's not leaving this floor as long as Longarm can keep his secretary quiet."

The second science officer rubs his faceplate slowly, "Where is that one then?"

Longarm answers "Currently in Quarantine as well." 

"Then we should all relocate." Perceptor announces, opening the doorway for all to follow.

The bright yellow and black box is labeled Hazardous Materials.

Cliffjumper comes out of his shocked state within the megacycle. Though subdued, he's able to rationalize everything with the faintest of pushes. Longarm promises that things will go back to normal as soon as they locate Highbrow. 

Sentinel doesn't wake up for three solar cycles. When he comes to it's with the disturbing weight of wires and tubing down his ventilation slots. He's startled, and hurt. Then his forearm clanks against the restraint and he begins to struggle violently. It makes the mini-con watching him have a spark attack. The little bot quickly buzzes for assistance as the restraints groan horribly.

The blue bot quickly slips back into a deep sleep as someone had a syringe full of the good stuff on hand. 

It takes another solar cycle for Sentinel to begin waking up without a violent outburst accompanying it. Nobody in the ward has any clue of the turmoil brewing in the guard's mind in the dead of night. They've settled for drugging him out of his helm to prevent any more damage to his frame.

Someone quietly explains to him that he's got many lacerations internally, his interface equipment needs time to heal. His spark chamber was burnt badly, probably from the parasitic protomonster. Sentinel finds that funniest of all. In the drugged up haze he can't answer complex questions, and can barely recall his own designation.

The things they urgently need to know goes neglected until Sentinel can be stabilized.


	7. Experts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentinel gets out of the hospital.

"Now, what is your designation?"

"Sentinel Prime."

"That's good. Do you remember why you're here?"

"No, I don't really."

"Mmm" the medic thinks he could really go for a good stiff drink. "you, sir. Had a terrible little accident in one of the armored Magus elevators."

"What?"

The heavy browed bot nods to himself and scribbles some more on his datapad. "Now, Sentinel we've got you patched up pretty well but we're waiting on some replacement parts." 

"What am I missing?" Sentinels' voice drags terribly. 

"Well, you blew out several of your internal fans." he brings the end of his stylus close to his mouth, longing to chew on it. He stops himself at the last moment, remembering his face is covered. He's been observing the faint trickle of lubricant down Sentinel's faceplate.

"Is that why it hurts?"

"What's hurting you?" and the red and white medic sounds far too indulgent.

His hand is under the protective plastic sheet and ruffling around the wrappings.

"Sentinel! Don't touch it."

"But-"

"Don't do it." he leans back in his seat and presses on the wall comm. "Nurse." 

"Now. What's hurting? Is it this?" the thin bot points at one of the long, ghostly tubes floating out of Sentinel's left chest vent.

"No."

The medic feels like weeping, frustrated with his patient. "Sentinel, we can't help you get better if you can't tell us what's wrong." he writes something down. "Is it your interface panel?"

"Yes."

Sighing, the medic turns back to the wall comm.. "Okay, someone needs to bring a ten X down here now before patient A frags himself up again."

"Excuse me?"

The gangly bot winces before quickly making his way to the IV in Sentinel's medical port. He turns the dial in the split lines, sending down a dose of tranquilizer into the military unit. "I swear by Primus."

"Well, he can talk right?" it's been two deca cycles and the parts have not come in yet.

"He's doing pretty good, he needs new fans and a few smaller pieces of armor sealed up. Overall his health has improved greatly." the medic assigned to patient A is scrawling neat letters on the cover of a stray datapad, listening to the Scientist who needs to harass the Prime. "If he did have something contagious it's not something we've been able to detect. As for release, I don't know if he can give you a straight answer with how medicated we've been keeping him. He has some serious anxiety issues, poor little empty p-"

"Sir, if he's capable of walking ..."

A strange look settles on the severe faceplate. "I don't know what you want with him, but he needs more time. He has constant-" the red and white bot gestures so wildly his stylus goes flying in the air. "night terrors. Whatever they're doing on that fragging tower of theirs is killing him, and it needs to stop." 

Wheeljack shakes his head "It can't be helped."

"I think it can."

"It can't."

He crosses his lanky arms and watches the surly mug in front of him.

"Discharge Sentinel Prime."

The medic sighs, "Sign the order form, I'll do it. I don't want any blame if this bot drops dead from exhaustion." his voice quiets. Wheeljack signs and leads the thin bot out like he's going to be executed. It's taken far too long for Sentinel to recover. Not that he's been allowed to know just what was wrong with the bot to begin with.

The doctor begrudgingly discharges the blue mech a few solar cycles later, prescribing him medication and apologizing profusely for the overcrowding. It leaves a dirty taste in his intake, one only high-grade can wash out. They barely have time to install the new parts. As the doctor's started sipping on his cube, he begins to think. Alone and in his office, only the faintest sounds of traffic reaching him. The Magus would want to know about one of the Autobot Elite getting discharged. A smile appears on the medic's face as he begins to open up a comm line.

Sentinel will never know a smog-less Iacon, or a Cybertron with more than a billion bots bustling on the surface like it once was. It's a big relief for him to finally get out of the stuffy little room and out into the glittering city that is Iacon. The crowd moves slowly, and Sentinel finds himself lost in a haze. Too frequently, a concerned looking bot asks him if he's alright. Of course, Sentinel tells them he's just heading home after a long day at work or waves it off.

The thought of returning to his own apartment dangles like a glittering jewel in his mind. The Academy graduate pauses once he's in the lobby of the complex. There's a small, red scout with medic written all over him. Sentinel isn't sure why he even glances at the bot, he should really get back to his apartment so he can start dusting everything off. 

"Sir?"

Sentinel tries to pretend he doesn't know they're here for him, walking into the hallway as the smaller bot trails after him.

"Excuse me, Sentinel Prime."

The blue bot pauses. "Yes?" He tries to feel irritated, but the emotion dies out like an ember in a freezer. 

"I'm really sorry but you need to come with me." the bot holds up something, a glass card with some sort of breezy authority that they give to special agents.

Sentinel's eyebrow twitches minutely. "Why?"

Seamlessly the smaller bot presses something on the card and it turns into a requisition form. From the office of the Cybertronian Science and Intelligence board of disease prevention. Signed by Preceptor and a dozen other no good glass etching nerds. "We need to do your follow up."

"Why didn't you wait outside of the hospital?" he asks, following the red bot as he turns. Sentinel wonders why the medic knew he'd just go along with it, he asks himself why he is and can't find an answer. 

The Science Guild hosts it's largest laboratory in the heart of Iacon. Sentinel sees it frequently enough that he isn't surprised by the daytime crowd. Before he knows it he's in a suspiciously clean room. 

A new medic enters, he actually looks ready to work. Sentinel can tell the difference between a decontaminated bot and a normal one from the sheen alone. His optics feel dried out as the bot begins a medical exam, a quick one over to make sure Sentinel isn't about to drop dead.

It's a few cycles alone in the room before Wheeljack steps in. The blue bot's spark drops immediately, but the fear doesn't quite touch his processor the way it should. 

"I need to brief you on the situation." There's a beep however, and the door opens as Perceptor steps in. His expression hasn't changed in eons. 

"You are here." Perceptor looks down into the datapads in his servos. The door shuts and he turns to lock it. "Have you been informed of the security levels?"

"He hasn't, I was about to tell him." Wheeljack clears his voice module, "This is top secret Sentinel, whatever we speak of here is not to be recounted to any bot. Protoforms are sometimes created from interface. I am sure you have heard of this."

"It's impossible. Only fabrication factories can make functional frames." carriers are just an urban myth, a legend. Sentinel is well aware of what had happened to him, but the swath of time in the hospital had made it feel so very far away. He begins to shake, fans kicking up. The dissonance makes his logic programming begin to fragment, he doesn't want to believe. 

"You're a young bot, the internal fabrication organs have been made vestigial in major production lines." the slow shock settles on the guardsman's face. "Most die from delivery because the carrier protocols have been removed from public update channels."

"But why?

Perceptor cuts in "Non usage, altered formatting protocols."

Wheeljack sighs, "Before the war, it became a polarizing topic. Decepticons invested more into R and D of the carrier system while Autobots decried it."

The red bot looks up from his datapad. "Anti Autobot sentiment cumulated in mass rapes and looting during the war. Post war protoform fabrication requiring too many resources to maintain. Autobot reproduction halted to .005% by third post war vorn."

A strange sense of euphoria hits the blue bot, he cradles his head in his servos because it crashed a second later. "I don't want to know why you're telling me." 

"Yeah, I know." Wheeljack pulls one of the seats out from under the cabinet and sits on it. "Your incident in the elevator." Sentinel's servos drift to his thighs. "That was a 40% formed protoform-"

Sentinel begins to shake his head back and forth in denial at them. "No it wasn't a protoform."

"-it's the furthest developed protofrom we've ever seen come from a bot. Sentinel, please listen to me." Perceptor pauses in his typing, but only because of the lull.

After a cycle Sentinel starts to speak again, "Yes, sir."

"We need your help."

Sentinel Prime begins to laugh. "I already was serving Cybertron I've been training since the day I was formatted."

"Sentinel, we've been trying to find bots that can carry. So far, you're the only one we've managed to keep alive." 

The Prime stops squeezing his leg, the pain finally hitting him. "What if I can't anymore?"

"Can't what?"

"Carry again?"

"That doesn't matter, okay." Wheeljack leans towards Sentinel.

The door opens, both scientists look at it sharply. Wheeljack raises a servo to his audial fin when the secretary calls to frantically inform them that the Magus is going to exam room 5. First comes in Jazz and then comes in that one bot that Sentinel still can't recall the designation of. "Units."

Everyone stands to attention, Sentinel letting out the customary "Sir." his voice is hoarse. 

"Perceptor, the Magus needs a word with you." The red bot comes forward, unable to exhibit the meekness he should before such a large body.


	8. Rehab

He doesn't know what goes on behind the closed door. The blue bot doesn't get to know either, simply saying goodbye when the other two bots have to leave. In the emptiness the bot begins to think, he wonders just when he'll be capable of working again. In the deep pit of his hydraulic lines, Sentinel feels as though he has been broken. He sits in his seat and waits it out, trying to not think about heavy hands and Ultra's deep frown.

Wheeljack returns, looking significantly diminished. They must of argued with the Magus again, that tickles Sentinel pink. "Alright, we will begin testing in one stellar cycle." he points an accusatory finger at the bot. "You need to stay away from all medications, and stay on grade C-02 energon." he sends Sentinel some data.  
The bluebot nods and nods and nods some more. "I've got it."

"Are you feeling different?"

"I don't remember."

"I figured you might have a more violent reaction to our proposition but they gave you way too much in the hospital." he ought to scold that medic. "You'll be processing much faster in a deca -cycle." the bot eyes Sentinel for a long moment. "Do you really intend to become Magus?"

"It's the only thing I have left." the smile that appears on his face is the most ghostly thing Wheeljack has seen since watching Perceptor attempting to throw out his old possessions.

Sentinel needs a warm servo to guide him forward. He finds himself sharply craving the past, for their long days spent studying in the Academy. He wants things to return to how they were before, when his future was so much clearer. The Prime's ordered on strict berth rest for five solar cycles, to wait out the withdrawal symptoms. The fever gives him the strangest dreams of his life, sharpening the painful contents of his sleeping hours.

In the underground laboratory of the Science Guild, several important bots gather to look over data. Wheeljack slouches in his seat idly, "Whoever mated with Sentinel is either very old or off the gird."

Perceptor looks at his companion. "We have several partial matches to Autobot frames."

"They aren't registered, not this census. Not the last five hundred thousand years at least." Wheeljack taps his datapad's screen. "It's a pre-war frame, most of those are below ground. Or, it's an illegally formatted one." 

"Last illegal frame was captured one vorn ago."

"They don't end up here on Cybertron, do they?" Wheeljack watches the additional data fly onto the screen.

"Most likely unregistered Cybertronian living in the lower levels of Iacon. Surveillance suggested."

"I get the feeling we aren't going to find anyone."

"Correct."

"Ultra's pretty overprotective of this one."

"Carrier mortality rate is high."

"Yeah, but-"

"Sentinel Prime's training has been in progress for two thousand stellar cycles. Protoform degeneration rising by .01% annually." 

"You think we'd get some more funding right?"

Another bot leans forward at their table, quietly placing his datapad down on the table. "This is certainly an interesting project, but I'm not sure I'll be of much help. I can check our databases but processing the volume of CNA necessary will take thousands of stellar cycles and funding we just don't have." his mouth flattens into a tense line.

Wheeljack just smiles, "Don't worry, it'll look better after you've had a few vorns in to take it all in. What we need from you are older models with intact arrays, not removed. The records have been partially reconstructed from post war recovery efforts."

"I don't understand why you don't take the old carrier protocols and redistribute them?"

Perceptor and Wheeljack share a look. Wheeljack rubs his faceplate, "Our main datacenters were bombed into rubble during the war, remember?" 

"Nobody has a back-up copy?" Longarm punctuates with his brows "Anyone?"

"If they did it would of been on a private server, most bots kept recorded media instead of programs." Wheeljack doesn't have to say that everyone was busy dying instead of saving publicly distributed software.

"Our reclamation efforts are still in order." Perceptor hardly spares the two a glance. "Estimated completion time: 106 million years" 

"What of other means of acquisition?" questions Longarm.

Wheeljack raises an optic ridge high, "You mean recovering from dead bots? Nearly impossible."

"I suppose you must of exhausted all avenues before resorting to-" he looks quickly from Perceptor to Wheeljack. "-experimentation on the public."

 

Post-clearance Sentinel becomes reintegrated into Elite Guard activities, mentored by his higher ranking bots. Sentinel Prime's stellar cycle passes by in a blur. While many do not like his disgusting adherence to the book, he is simply the most sharp cornered bot of all. There's no holding him back, not when he refuses to give anyone a reason to. Everything about his promotion and shoving it in the face of every nay-sayer almost makes him forget about his losses. 

The year ends too soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many comedic episodes removed from this story.


	9. Isotope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Highly invasive medical procedure inbound.

Everything has squared down to the too-cold room, Sentinel has forgotten any well-wishes the others had given him. His hands won't stop shaking, he tucks them between his thighs for five klicks. The jiggling of his legs begin to send a shudder up his spine. Sentinel Prime doesn't want to feel the terror of anticipation any longer. A part of his tank tells him he's being watched, but he's always being watched these days. 

Perceptor and a nurse enter, "This won't take long, are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, I am."

"That's good, we're going to administer a mild anesthetic. That'll keep you from feeling any pain."

The larger bot's nodding doesn't reassure her. "Yes." he sounds dry.

She swipes the probe with lubricant and Perceptor drinks it all in without a word.

"I can't do this." Sentinel squeals, sharply as the cold instrument presses against his valve. The Elite Guard members are many times stronger than the average Autobot, and the table is not. It bends like tinfoil beneath his servos and the nurse gives Perceptor a horrified look as Sentinel begins to writhe. 

Perceptor steps forward and presses a button on the table. Instantly, the larger mech feels his body freeze in place. Then the mech sags as the stasis forces his joints into relaxation. He lets his mind wander, desperately clinging to anything but the prodding at his nodes by the dead cold probe. Wheeljack had promised they'd be as unobtrusive as possible. Ultra discussed doing his civic duty at least a thousand times in the last deca cycle.

Sentinel turns to watch Perceptor as the larger bot pops open his medical ports, plugs in a line that slides the Prime into a recharge cycle. The red bot flicks on the screen attached to their probe and then turns to his nurse.

"He said he wanted to be awake." mumbles the nurse to herself.

"No matter, continue." 

The nurse bites her lip but continues. "This doesn't look like the old schematic." she motions to the screen displaying the camera's feed, "It's newer, maybe a mutation? What do you think?"

"New outline, separate origin" he points to a curvature "it's sharing a wall with the coolant repository." 

She nods quietly, "I think that's enough." she pulls the probe out. "It's all recorded."

"Sample 46 first."

The tube is long and filled with a mixture of silvery liquid, it's still warm. If the patient didn't like the probe he really wouldn't like the long syringe being pushed inside of him. She depresses the plug and inseminates their patient-bot. "I think we're good."

Perceptor nods, "I will watch him."   
Several megacycles pass. Sentinel wakes up to the monotonous bot staring at him with that cold, empty face. "Am I alive?"

"Yes." the bot releases the stasis on Sentinel Prime.

The blue bot sits up and looks down at the doctor, he can't remember how he ended up on the table. He's handed a datapad, "Read the instructions. If you have any questions, ask them now."

"Wait did the procedure happen?"

"Yes."

Sentinel skims over the datapad. "So, how am I supposed to know if-" 

Perceptor hands him a box. "It's in the instructions." the bot beings transmitting data to Sentinel Prime. "This is the new carrier code, install it. You are getting version alpha .0195d, it's stable." The patient nods glumly, and Perceptor accesses the medical link tied to a monitor. It blips cheerfully when the new systems come online. "It's working correctly." Perceptor wonders if it'll really work.

 

Longarm Prime wonders the same thing, a few stellar cycles later. He's shifting through the numbers, as the testing has widened to about one thousand bots on Cybertron. Sentinel Prime's not showing any results, not after the first, second, tenth, fiftieth try to get him knocked up. Cybertronians easily live to fifty million stellar cycles, so the team remains patient about the testing. They're missing something crucial, or maybe they haven't found the correct donor yet. 

The secretive Decepticon, much like the rest of their race has no idea what a massive change is occurring to them. Perceptor and Wheeljack's team has made enough requisitions to trigger the drastic movement of supplies, bots and energon. Optimus Prime's squad gets assigned to a sector closer to Cybertron, and the promise of an early break in return for the long journey. Prowl remains in stasis lock on a lone planetoid, meditation intact. Megatron's ship drifts back home after an uneventful sweep of another lonely corner of the galaxy.

Longarm rests alone in his office after a long day of work. The Autobots seem determined to grow, painful as they make it. Ultra Magus grows paranoid, the disappearance of Highbrow has pushed him towards developing more defensive measures. A controversial stance for bots used to sitting and growing fat on energon they can't afford. There's a distinct lack of new ideas coming in from their far flung colonies, their energy storage is low with the assurance of their colonies. It's the same shameful, stifling progress of too much push and not enough taking. 

Speaking of being fallow, the spy contacts his commander surreptitiously. Megatron's cool expression turns into inquiry after a moment onscreen. "Sir, the Autobots have been moving large numbers to facilitate a scientific expedition. I suspect I can ruin the entire Autobot society if the lengths of their mutilation is brought to the public." 

Megatron stifles a laugh, "What are they researching."

"Autobot reproduction."

They both chuckle quietly. In a regal, villainous manner "How interesting, maximize the damage. Any news on the Allspark?"

The two quietly discuss the destruction of the Autobots in private.


	10. Fin: Part A - Single

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. It got out of hand, really, really out of hand! This chapter (and all parts of Fin) gets really dark. Suicidal thoughts, daterape, abuse kinda bad.  
> Turn back, before it's too late. 
> 
> Fin is the last "chapter" but is split into several parts, likely four because of their length.

It's a feeling Sentinel used to get from Highbrow, that sticky sensation in his spark. A beast far removed from the achy, butterfly inducing feelings towards Elita. It hurts to think he was abandoned so easily, even after the bot's disappearance has been forgotten by everyone. Perhaps it's simply the pedestal Ultra sits upon that's drawing Sentinel towards him. Admitting to a single grain of attraction between them was like trying to eat sand. The Prime does not want to like a mech over ten thousand years old, let alone a million, let alone a mech frame. No, all Sentinel wants is his sanity back, but why would he get that. 

Sentinel knows for certain that Optimus has come crawling back to Cybertron. It's not easy for him to see why, when he's not given enough of the picture. Bravado raised from an itinerary too young to of been pushed through so fast, Sentinel doesn't want to understand. Hardly anyone but those involved with the arrangement understand the relocated units and their purpose.

Wheeljack however, understands. Earlier him and Perceptor had been making plenty of calls to bots in their never ending quest to alter the fate of their species. Perceptor making his rounds through the listings as well, having memorized most of their names. Their unit systematically searching for bots that are deviating from standard imprinting, like Sentinel's frame. 

Perceptor receives the manifest for Optimus's ship and skims it. There's nothing unusual listed, he continues without pursuing it any further.

A nanoklick or two later, "Hey can you put that one up on the screen?" the red bot turns to him, slack-browed and undisturbed by the request. 

"Certainly." He taps a few buttons and the manifest appears on the wall.

"Isn't that Omega supreme?" the mostly white bot grins at the familiar face. 

"Correct."

"Whoa, Rachet's still on board too." Wheeljack makes a few notes before pausing. There's a bot listed there and his name just tickles at his processor. "Perceptor?"

"Yes?"

"Bring up Autobot Optimus Prime's record." it takes a few klicks to load in. Wheeljack tilts his head. "Sentencing ..."

"What is it?"

"Optimus Prime and Sentinel Prime were supposed to graduate the same stellar cycle."

Perceptor continues going through ship listings.

"Both were charged with improper use of equipment, Optimus Prime was held responsible for the death of a fellow cadet."

"Minimal punishment carried out."

Wheeljack motions with his servo for a moment. "Listen, what if"

The other scientist glances at Wheeljack at the pause. 

"Optimus Prime is the" Wheeljack experiences a moment of deja vu, it's a once common line. "nanite donor?"

Blinking owlishly at his screen, the red bot turns off his datapad. "Probability?"

"I mean if he had time off at all." Wheeljack rubs his chin. "I'm going to ask around the office."

"I'll start filing the requisition form." of course, they have office drones for that. Perceptor just likes doing it.

 

There are things that bots enjoy thoroughly, like long walks down the rusty beaches or a cold serving of aged oil. Typically, Sentinel Prime indulged. Currently, he's been banned from the drink. However, the Prime has been ordered to act as normally as possible. The contradicting requests has pegged the blue frame into visiting the old oil houses after work with his coworkers, despite being dry. 

He can take energon, this kind's particularly watered down as well. There's none of the prescribed garbage here, so he doesn't understand why it feels so fagging tingly against his lips. The change comes so minutely, Sentinel barely registers how sluggish he becomes. By the time his vocalizer outright fails, most of the bar's crowd has gone home. The sun sets, the stars come out. Nobody recognizes the bot that shoulders the burden of Sentinel Prime, arriving in strange colors. Sentinel fails to write anything to his processor's internal memory as he's carried out by a "friend". 

Dark blue, faded paint, a friendly voice he can hardly recall. In the drug induced haze Sentinel mistook the stranger for one of the bots he'd trained at the Academy. His head lolls, loose and unhindered by the bot's shaky neural net. Hands crawling over his frame and picking over the seams of his chassy, vents flicking open loudly in the dark. Sentinel's strutless as the mech freely violates him as they saunter down the dingy streets, moving further, and further away from Sentinel's home. Digits only have to brush against his interface panel to get it open. They give up on carrying the heavy solider unit, opting to press him against a rusty metal wall. 

 

Sentinel Prime wakes up the next afternoon, a dozen calls on his arm with a half propped open comm unit. He's not in his home, definitely not aboveground either. There's an unfamiliar ceiling above his head and there's garbage on the floor. It feels like his tank's been filled with lead. A haunting, sickening feeling crawls into the pit of his tank and gnaws. Achy pain starts to register in his joints, from being left out in the cold and he can't feel the terror that strikes when he tries to stand up. His valve absolutely burns, it doesn't hurt, but it burns, even his cabling has been damaged somehow. 

The bot steadies himself against the wall and rises on shaky legs. Sentinel doesn't know where he is, how he got here, what happened after he left work earlier. The last thing he can recall is saying goodbye to the greeter bot at the Elite Guard's headquarters.

 

Optimus Prime receives an official request to visit the Science Guild about halfway to Cybertron. It should take them half a stellar cycle to take the massive ship back, but they side-track to a planet with a space bridge and settle in. Together the team repair the decommissioned site, and say goodbye to their dear commander before taking Omega home. Nobody's very excited by their stay on "Planet no-place, no-bot, no-sun, no-rock, no-fun. I want to go home." Bee becomes obnoxiously cabin-feverish. 

The Prime can really relate to Bee though, he has to fill out a big stack of datapads on their assignment before even getting to the waivers about his own body. 

Iacon's heavily monitored and screened intake traffic has him in gridlock for nearly two days alone. When he finally gets into the Science Divison building, it takes three megacycles of waiting and watching terrible daytime dramas to finally be called in.

"Optimus Prime?"

"Yes sir that's me."

"We have a few questions to ask you." Wheeljack smiles pleasantly. "When was the last time you came in for a checkup?"

"About a vorn ago, I don't know if it got recorded."

"Alright."

"Have you by any chance had contact with Sentinel Prime?"

"Not within the last five hundred stellar cycles." Optimus's voice becomes sharp and curt at the question. He knew this wasn't a real medical visit, but they could of been far more straightforward in getting information out of him.

"Has he visited you at all within the last ten cycles?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Have you ever interfaced with him?"

"No. No way." Optimus shakes his head. "I have never. Had any kind of interface with that mech." the words fall heavy, laced with disgust and old, muddy resentment. The Prime crosses his arms over his chest and attempts to snuff out his anger.

"Alright, sorry to question you like that. We actually need to collect energon from you now. Just a little."

"Why's that exactly."

"Inoculation records, we're doing updates and testing our net."

It's clear the Prime is not entirely convinced by the answer. 

"I'm not sure if you've been informed but Sentinel Prime was infected with a rare viral strain. We're just making sure that everyone is fine. We may have to check out your team as well."

"What kind of virus can incubate for a thousand years?" 

Optimus doesn't receive an answer at all.


	11. Fin - Part B - Rusty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally deleted this chapter and had to rewrite it today, yay.
> 
> Mentions of murders and more trauma.

It had been fun, so much fun. Honestly, terrorizing bots has to be one of Longarm's favorite pastimes since arriving on Cybertron. His stealth and heightened intelligence let him covertly operate within any level of Cybertronian society. There have been days where he's taken the lives of ten, maybe twenty bots just for their raw materials. Building a lab had taken most of his time, from what sparse supplies he'd been able to smuggle in here and there. Shockwave's even managed to keep up with all those pesky former relationships and sparkmates from Longarm's real past. 

Part of him really wishes he could be rid of any ties to this name, but he knows better than to do something so utterly moronic. The mech returns home to his apartment, it's a shared one with one other bot. A home secure and nice enough for nobody to think of him as suspicious or overly obsessed with his job due to the distance. Yet something weighs upon the mech's spark, a needle in his chest as he thinks more about what he's done. Last night had been a rash decision, but it had been fun. The chaos of such a rambunxious audience had intoxicated him and he'd had to get them entertainment somehow, and what a better way to throw a wrench into the Science Guild's most recent project.

 

Meanwhile, in a much lower class location the other Prime argues with someone, "I'm going to call him.", it comes firmly from their little leader, arms crossed firmly.

Rachet helpfully raises a brow, "Are you sure about that?"

"What?" Optimus vocalizes too loud.

"You sound angry."

"I do? I think I deserve to, he made this happen." Optimus points at the floor, accusing it of crimes it did not commit. The bot lifts his arm and dials, after several seconds the line abruptly picks up "Sentinel." Optimus sounds quite not-happy at his screen. 

If anything the bot sounds accusatory to Sentinel's processor. The Prime's feed goes through and immediately warbles with, "No. No. No. No. No." It takes a long, pregnant klick before Sentinel chokes on a deep inhale and hangs up. For good measure, he even blocks the other Prime's number.

Two megacycles later and someone's calling Optimus instead. He picks up with a tired "Yeah?", putting down the construction material he'd been hauling. A massive disappointment, like most of Optimus's life. The mech hangs up after a few polite "No, I'm sorry. I just wouldn't know. I mean he liked the Oil Houses enough."

Rachet looks up from his work at long, long last. "What was that about?"

"Sentinel's gone missing." 

The old mech shakes his head "Sometimes young bots do that, they just disappear and come back after a binge." he chuckles softly. 

 

He doesn't want to go home, he doesn't want to go anywhere. The mech had just spent the last few cycles hobbling in pain to some doorway and curled up under it. The shadows cast by it give him enough cover to feel just a little bit safe. Trembling, he fights back the bitter tears. Hands rise and he covers his face as he hears some bots wander by distantly.

There's nothing that states he should be alive still, his spark feels like it's sputtering out from the stress. The bot raises a hand to his emblemed spark and realizes - the texture. The t-texture. Bitter, bitter tears drip down his face as he runs his digits very slowly. Minute scratches across the surface- right at the seam. They'd opened his spark chamber, they had seen his spark. Fear engulfs him, they could of killed him. The bastards could of taken his very existence away with just a slip up. 

How could he of been so stupid, so stupid to think he was safe. Sentinel curls up and slowly vents, not minding the lonely place he's chosen.

Several megacycles pass in silence, and he finally pulls himself back together enough to rise. Inside he can feel the searing pain of how deep they must of gotten into his systems- a poorly coded link. Sentinel wobbles upwards and realizes how achingly hungry he is. He bites his lip and leans against the wall, quietly he rubs the coolant and oil off his faceplate. 

He has to steel himself as he checks through the messages he misses. Finally, he locates the one bot he wants to message. Mister Magus himself. 

 

Sentinel doesn't want to be looked at, or examined medically. It was a heavy blow, yes. Perceptor measures it by how much high grade Wheeljack intakes in his sorrow. Perceptor traces the sharp edge of his scope, the soft light absorbed by his matte stripes and reflected by the shiny red paint. "The Magus has refused our last plea."

Wheeljack nods to his friend over the edge of a datapad, half-finished cube and exhaustion plaguing him.

"We should take extra legal meas-"

Jackie rises and pushes his hand against Perceptor's mouth. "No."

Perceptor takes a step back, "What measures are we to take if we cannot do rudimentary examinations? Have our procedures not been done with extreme care?"

"Yes, yes they have." Jackie rubs his face, "I think something else happened. Maybe the Magus wants Sentinel for another project. I don't know." 

The smaller bot looks up a calendar. "Actually" his friend looks up at him curiously "tomorrow is the Magus's spark date." he looks down at Jackie. 

"I forgot about that." and a laugh, slow at first, but growing in deepness. "I can't believe this." 

"We should investigate."

"Yeah, we should" the decorated mech smiles, "I heard those parties get pretty wild"

 

"I never really saw the point of such things." Perceptor says it flatly, while watching the light dance across an unfamiliar face. It's the day of the party and he is exactly one megacycle too early. There are mechs and femmes and minicons of all sizes to eyeball, the hall's already half full.

Wheeljack got nice and intoxicated before even getting there, the stress of not meeting their target quota making him happy to indulge. He gives an unceremonious laugh into his flute before tipping the delicate glass prism into his intake. 

The pair of scientists aren't a couple but they're repeatedly mistaken for one- especially by bots that don't know them. Wheeljack hits on anything vaguely humanoid and has ten more drinks before Garry tells him to slow down.

Percetpor however, ignores everything his friend does after he spots Sentinel Prime. 

Not so odd to see the Prime acting like the Magus's shadow, but there lays something off about the entire image- Jazz can feel it. Anyone who's been around Sentinel more than a single cycle could feel it. Jazz doesn't want to ask, not when it's the Magus's day. The day that Ultra kisses cybernetic scout hounds and poses nicely in front of things, pretending to be a normal mech instead of the overbearing leader they need.

To further disturb his spark, Jazz recalls the strange entrainment of the guardsman. Sentinel came to work, but never off planet, never to diplomatic meetings. Nothing can quell the unease Jazz feels when he notices the red bot staring at the Magus.

However, Ultra wanders a few steps away. The mech speaks with that strange femme with the long green shell across her legs. Perceptor's gaze stays on Sentinel. Jazz frowns, and steps forward. Sentinel looks like slag, like someone had put him through a grinder and spat him out. He'd been buffed, and polished, and cleaned, and painted. Something had shaken his friend so thoroughly he can hardly think. Jazz coughs softly and leads the mech to a table. "Hey, Sentinel. Are you alright?"

"Yes, just tired." he sits so delicately into the chair, so delicately.

Jazz lets out a sigh of relief, "You know, I've missed seeing you around. It's kinda quiet now" he pauses, and Sentinel puts his face in his servos, a silent, grief-stricken noise coming from behind his fingers. The mech feels cold, and then colder when he notices the large figure shadowing them.

"Jazz, could you get me four cubes of Desotrovian's 0548?" he doesn't smile, it's a clear "fuck off" from the older mech.

The white and black bot scurries off with a "Yes sir."

Alone, Ultra sits next to Sentinel. "I don't know what he said but I think you should leave. Sentinel, you shouldn't of come. I-I will make them stop, do you understand?"

His sullen workmate nods slowly. 

"I need you to stand up." Sentinel and the larger mech do stand. However, immediately afterwards someone goes falling off one of the balconies. Ultra sighs and shakes his head.

The evening drags on for forever, until finally Ultra manages to avoid enough attention to get them to one of the meeting rooms. "We need to talk, Sentinel." 

"I know."

"The medics said you were" he sits down "harmed?"

Sentinel nods, mouth quivering as he tries to find the words. "I was just" his voice sounds so sore. "at the oil house" he shakes his head, shakes it and shakes it some more. "I can't remember everything. I woke up- it hurt so bad sir. It hurt."

After an exhausting evening with diplomats and his own people, Ultra's spark finally begins to tremble. He leans forward, offering his hand.

The younger mech takes it and squeezes it tightly. "I'm sorry I was clinging you." Sentinel gulps. "I just needed to see you again sir. I-I don't know who else to turn to. I don't feel like I can do this anymore."

"It's okay Sentinel. We can stop this now, they have your CNA they can clone you- we have the resources. Did-" Ultra freezes, because he already knows the answer to the question he wants to task. "Did the medics touch you inappropriately?" 

Sentinel lets go of the servo, uttering a quiet "No."

Ultra sighs, "I'm sorry, I didn't think hard enough to protect you." tears dribble down his optics. There was so much here, so much pain. It brings down memories he'd hoped had been wiped from his memory core so many years ago. "We lost so much, I shouldn't of placed this burden on you and them." maybe, maybe they could do it a better way. "I just can't think of a specimen better."

"It wasn't" Sentinel pauses, "no, the Science Division didn't do that to me."

"Oh." Ultra should of known. "Then who?"

"I don't know."

The silence stretches on for a cycle. "You didn't see them?"

"I did, I can't remember. They put something in my drink, then nothing." Sentinel's face feels like it's bleeding tears that won't. "I get-" he frowns in a very ugly manner "flashes when someone touches me." he puts his head in his face "I thought I was strong enough that nobody could do this. I was getting over being _humiliated_ by the _fragging experiment_ and then **this** happened. Sir, why? Why does this keep happening?"

Ultra takes a deep vent to calm himself. "I- I don't know Sentinel." his face tightens, brow drawn sharply in pain. "I" the Magus rubs his faceplate. "I've had a similar experience. I believe." he sits back in his seat. "When I was in boot camp, and then going through Academy." the mech feels so heavy, so tired. "I had a senior officer, he liked me too much." smiling softly, "Him and his friends would invite me after dark and would use me. Even if I didn't want to." he balls his fist and puts his chin on it, fighting back the memory of being paralyzed and dragged through the dark. "I don't know why bad things happen Sentinel" the mech's voice is scratchy and tired. "but, I know you're strong. You can be strong enough to survive through it. I believe in you Sentinel. I have so much faith in you." 

A painfully good liar, from vorns upon vorns of practice. The exhausted and battered Sentinel immediately believes his beloved Magus. Shock wears off and he nods, spent emotionally and physically from the long night. "I don't think I can go home." 

"You don't have to, we're here for you Sentinel." and the mech, the tired mechs nod to each other in agreement.


	12. Fin - Part C - Fishing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for the endings.

The Magus can understand that it will take some time for Sentinel to heal. The older bot watches over his current crew of bots. Those who remain do not know of the intricacies of the guilds and their own position in the military. He holds his head up high but feels a graveness for what's about to be inflicted upon one of his underlings, perhaps this time the guilt will be too much. Feelings never matter while trying to determine the fate of their species. 

"I think it is time for you to rest, Sentinel Prime. You've been through so much, I cannot have you attempting to serve Cybertron in your current state."

There was a part of the blue mech that died. Perhaps it only felt that way from the pain. A part of his spark dislodged as he felt the bond that they had, as sick and horrible as what had happened to him was. Sentinel Prime can only feel relief that he wasn't the only one to of had such awful things happen to him. The bittersweet trickle of his fluttering crush had been reinforced, so gently. 

Sentinel finally admits it to himself, those feelings were real. It wasn't just the hero worship, he wants more. As selfish and ugly as it was he wants the affection frighteningly bad. 

If only Cybertron had therapist, then better to understand wayward human TV shows "processor-spark-doctors" heal so many. Amazing human idea thing many share, human so smart.

Yet here sits the great Sentinel Prime in a hospital ward, laying on the medical berth. He can hear the slow drip of fluid into his booster line- the medical type. 

On a far off barrack, there is a far off blip in a mech's processor. His optical shutters slide up and he blinks, then picks up the line on his wall. The wall isn't familiar to him, he's just moved in. All of them have recently gotten shifted to duty on Cybertron rather than their usual duties. "Hello?" 

"Optimus." 

Said Optimus frowns at the out of place voice, "Wheeljack?"

"Right, you remember me?"

"You're quite infamous to me."

The mech laughs, "Optimus, I hate prying into your personal life."

Optimus's face sours "Yeah, I know. You seem to do it every time I speak to you."

"I need to know if you and Sentinel have ever interfaced." he pauses, wondering if the mech will answer at all.

"Never."

Shocked silence and then a "Really?"

"Yes, really."

"Really? Really?"

"Really, really, listen. Me and him are not friends. We do not talk. We had a mutual friend who passed away and now" Optimus shrugs. "if he's sick it's because of someone else, not me. I haven't laid a finger on him in at least two vorns."

It was asking too much, Wheeljack thinks it as he taps his datapad against the table. They don't have the funds to clone a bot for their project. Ultra's not even on the line anymore, but he made it clear. No more poking or prodding the subject.

Sentinel Prime's upstairs and recharging. 

There was nothing more Ultra could do, he decides that as he reads over the report. Perceptor's limp arms are characterless, without any touch of emotion. Unreadable the Magus looks over the smaller mech, "And you're certain of these results? Nothing has been tampered?" though he wouldn't put it past Perceptor to not do so.

"We are certain, his marker levels increased dramatically from yesterday." the mech slides a finger over the surface of his datapad "As you can see, there is a small mass forming in his spark chamber." He shows the series of photos, showing the darker semi-spark traversing Sentinel's like a small storm. "It's getting larger." so much healthier and bigger than the last one.

Despite all he had done to protect the younger Prime, Ultra had failed. "I can see ... " the Magus bites his tongue and resigns himself. If he doesn't give in, he knows that Perceptor will do anything to get access to the Prime. A special council meeting could be held, maybe even a law passed. Should even a word of their experiments meet the public in any official channel it would spark massive dissent. "but I cannot give this order. Sentinel Prime is in no state to be a test subject following this recent incident."

Perceptor freezes, unsure how to respond appropriately. After but a klick, "If the mental strain is unsustainable, we will stop testing. Howerver his current state of spark means he must be monitored to ensure his health."

The grim look has yet to leave the Magus's face. He's torn between acknowledging the truth the red bot presents and denying the mech everything. "Understood, but we are not attempting anything more than a recovery. You can alter other subjects but this ends here."

 

It's not exactly something Sentinel likes to hear, Perceptor's monotone voice in the mornings. The slight squeak of the medical trays, but it's better than the stone cold silence of their old hideout in the depths of the medical wards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sorry for Capt. Caveman paragraph.


End file.
